


reciprocity

by deathwailart



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Developing Relationship, Getting to Know Each Other, Multi, Slow Burn, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29260341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: Altaïr and Maria return to Masyaf from their travels at last; Malik thinks Altaïr's lost his mind but Altaïr has a proposition for him: get to know Maria as he has.  What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	reciprocity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jaina (effervescible)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/effervescible/gifts).



> I replayed Assassin's Creed back in the summer and watched Bloodlines; I've not read Secret Crusade in forever so timeline-wise I've probably diverted and jumped around a little.

Malik's first thought when a breathless novice, robes flapping, chest heaving not unlike a bellows hurtles up the stairs to announce that Altaïr ( _"The Master has returned! With a **woman**!"_) is at the gates is that he's lost what's left of his damned mind to the Apple. Malik's entertained the thought on and off ever since Altaïr departed for Acre then off to Kyrenia, Limassol and beyond. The novice dismissed to go spread their hard-won gossip – Malik remembers being that age and spying a returning Assassin, small legs faster than a weary soul dismounting and stabling a horse – hasn't any idea who the woman is. A Templar. Or former Templar according to Altaïr's letters which he's stressed in multiple letters; she tried to kill him though Malik would be lying to himself if he hadn't entertained such thoughts following Solomon's Temple in his haze of pain and grief, something to replace the hollow in his ribs even if it was bitterness.

Life has moved on and the Master has returned.

At least he can be rid of addressing everyone from behind this desk that was Al Mualim's, some part of him still always that young man in white robes without the black coat on the other side, awaiting orders, not the one giving them during Altaïr's absence. Masyaf, sheltered as it is, hasn't the din of Jerusalem to drown out all else and the mountains carry the greeting calls of everyone in the training ring below, shouts from the battlements; if it was a design of the Assassins past is something Malik could probably read if he'd the time now but even with _someone_ returning to do the job he took on he doubts that's going to become a reality.

For all the letters Altaïr _did_ write – and Malik has stacks of them, neatly tied, taking up more than their fair share of space on shelves where unfinished maps sit to taunt him – he never bothered to send one confirming his return.

Which makes him loping up the steps, grit and dirt embedded in his robes that speak of hard riding with Maria Thorpe several steps behind him, his arms outstretched with a delighted cry of 'Malik!' on his lips all the more irritating and entirely like him.

"Finally you return and disturb this place, the novices will be chattering all day." Malik speaks the words into a shoulder, pulled into a tight embrace the instant he rounds the table and if he claps Altaïr hard enough between the shoulders to force a breath out of him then that's his own business. Altaïr's certainly had worse. "Safety and peace. Welcome home."

"And to you, it's been too long." Altaïr pulls back slowly, a hand still on Malik's shoulder to beckon Maria forward where she's been linger by the last pillar at the stairs, a hand on the hilt of her sword, a soldier's stand Malik's seen plenty since the Crusaders came.

Strange how well he knows her from Altaïr's missives alone.

"Malik this is—"

"Maria Thorpe. The Templar at Majd Addin's funeral." A flat reply that sees Altaïr's hand tighten on his shoulder but not painfully. Sympathetic, a wince while he keeps the smile on his face instead.

"Former Templar," she corrects with a clipped accent and a tight smile. "I have no interest in returning to the fold."

"Did I not write letters?" Altaïr asks and he looks between the two of them.

"You did. I had thought you a man on your travels."

"I was—"

"Yet somehow my shelves overflow with them. Tell me," he looks past Altaïr to Maria who seems remarkably relaxed but then again who'd want to show fear before a stranger (if she is one, if Altaïr wrote about her it stands to reason he talked just as much about those he'd left behind to her) in a strange place where they've no reason not to stick a blade in her, "did he call a halt to write?"

"I had to listen to him read the majority aloud." She sighs, the weary bone-deep sigh of somehow who could recite them if asked but it's the roll of the eye that has Malik trying not to smile – they had a Templar in their midst once before, in plain sight, and it wasn't so long ago that Abbas tried to seize control – and it creeps over his face regardless.

"I only wished for your input given we were together," Altaïr begins, shaking his head. "I still can't believe how many you slept through."

It's that last part where he sounds the petulant novice who hasn't received the praise he thought due to him by a teacher that has Malik laughing at the ridiculousness of it. Some things never change, it seems, and he's missed Altaïr for all he might well have been alongside him, the letters a mix of scrawled ramblings that tapered off with his exhaustion on the journey thus far – what he'd seen, who he'd met, the food, the suffering – or short asides about what the Apple had revealed through greater study all with comments about Maria, their time together, his hopes, his plans.

Malik has to wonder now how much Altaïr read for her approval.

"You're staying in Masyaf then?" Malik asks when all three of them have been stood silent too long, Altaïr looking between him and Mari, Maria watching Malik with a level stare that Malik meets.

"That's my plan, yes," Maria replies and her fingers reach for her sword perhaps, or for a hand not there, the ghost of a life gone.

Malik spent months attempting to reach for cups, the rungs of a ladder, his throwing knives, with an arm no longer there.

"I thought to venture East," she continues with some fondness and looks to Altaïr who smiles, head ducked, "but I chose to journey here, with Altaïr. Though not to become an Assassin – that's too hasty a decision after leaving one order behind me I think."

Malik nods because it's sensible and even if there's like to be uproar in some quarters at her presence, the outcry would be even worse if she were to rush it. If this is Altaïr's choice then he's chosen well.

"We've had scholars before." A testing of the waters from Altaïr, not the edge of argument he'd have had prior.

"We've been isolated too long," Malik agrees and next to him Altaïr relaxes; he still hasn't removed his hand from Malik's shoulder, the pinch between his brows smoothing out and Maria laughs, a short sharp bark of sound.

"Despite what I, shall we say, _endured_ on our shared voyage to Kyrenia I'm hardly the great learnèd Master returned to the mountain."

" _Maria_!"

It's Altaïr's scandalised tone after Maria's sweeping bow at the end of her words that does it for Malik, that has him bent double laughing hard enough he can't see and it sets them off too, a lightness in him he's only had in fleeting moments for months now.

"You could stand to teach us a great many things and keep us humble Maria," Malik says when he can, wiping his eyes. "Welcome to Masyaf, I'll have someone take you on a better tour than this one would ever manage."

* * *

Maria leaves to be shown about ( _'to help you settle in_ is what Malik catches) which is somehow charitable and about as far from it as Malik can imagine; she's been in the Holy Land years now but with the Crusaders for the bulk of it and he has to wonder how much of any language she speaks that isn't English or French or church Latin, how a person settles into a fortress that not so long ago would've killed her on sight if they couldn't have gotten information from her. Still, she goes with her head high, shoulders back and the proper deference to whoever leads her off.

She must know they'll gossip as soon as they take their leave of her.

"Malik," Altaïr sighs out his name and they're alone so he leans back against the desk that's his again until someone else takes his place in a way Al Mualim would never have allowed, shoulders sagging, head tipped back to gaze at the ceiling.

"What? You would have done things differently?" Malik raises an eyebrow and since they've no witnesses, leans across to shove Altaïr who shoves him back with his shoulder.

"Perhaps. I'm too close to the situation."

"I noticed." Malik sighs, another thing he's been able to put to the side until now, something that was far away from him that he didn't have to deal with or spend much time on beyond a missed opportunity maybe but now here it all is, here to stay and stare them all in the face. "You know it won't go over well with some factions."

"I know—"

"And her most of all—"

"I know. As does Maria."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"She spent all those years hidden amongst the Crusaders with no one knowing that she was a woman; how many women have you fought even amongst the Templars?" Malik doesn't want to give Altaïr the point but his silence does it for him. "The Order can't live in the shadow of Al Mualim forever Malik."

He can't look at Altaïr, travel-stained and worn and yet already filled with this new fire in him after all that, so changed from the man whose arrogance cost Malik everything. Altaïr's been away though. Letters can only do so much to try to keep him up to date when relying on unpredictable riders, couriers, wary of ever saying too much when the letters could fall into the wrong hands.

He heaves out a sigh that could hollow out his chest, head falling all the way back to look up at the ceiling instead. "Look what happened when you burned Al Mualim's body."

"I know." The words are almost missed as a cheer goes up in the training ring below them to signal the end of a bout that Malik would usually watch from the sidelines or go down to join since no one can afford to go to rust. "I've thought of little else but the future, the Apple, us."

"Us?" Malik echoes, intrigued but not enough to move now he's comfortable.

"I don't see any sort of future for myself without you there, Maria knows that too, and while we've not always seen eye to eye on things, I hoped for a better future now."

"You aren't the man you were. A better one I think," Malik does look at Altaïr as he speaks those words else he'd do a disservice to them both when he can imagine what it must take even now for him to admit as much. "Don't let it go to your head."

"That's why I need you both."

"The former Templar."

"Get to know her for her, not just what I said after Majd Addin's funeral and in my letters. Malik," Altaïr leans across to clasp him firmly by the shoulder so he can't look away unless he made some ridiculous show of it and they're grown men, not boys, besides they've seen far too much these past months and their old skins would fit them ill. "She—I remember little enough of my father in truth, his face has blurred over the years and I was a boy barely raised by him before he died so I can't say if he loved my mother, how close they were but maybe, I think…"

Altaïr trails off, hand falling away, not embarrassed but something Malik's not seen from him but then who was Altaïr close to all those years as the Mentor's favourite? (No one talked about Adha, the informants gossiped but even in bitter jealousy and anger there were always lines not to be crossed and Adha sat there, sacrosanct, Malik's never said her name aloud where Altaïr might hear it certainly.) He's smiling and Malik's sure that if he pointed it out, Altaïr would be startled by it.

He doesn't know what to think himself, dredges up the responsibilities because one of them must. "You know they won't approve."

"I know. But you?"

"I cannot put one man above the Order, not even you."

"And this is why I trust your council more than all others." _Bar one_ , Altaïr doesn't need to say. _Us_ , he said too. "You have misgivings about Maria, I understand, so I propose this: spend time with her, get to know her as I have."

It's on the tip of Malik's tongue to question just how he's to get to know her as Altaïr has but he thinks better of it. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Whatever you will to spend time together. Show her around, train with her, answer questions – spend time, you hadn't been hidden in the bureau that long you forgot how to speak to people."

"Behave yourself or I'll send you to Ra'uf to prove you've not gone to rust and ruin so far from Masyaf."

"Mercy Malik, please, I am weary," Altaïr begs with a hand clasped to his chest, falling back against the desk with his other arm until he buckles. "Will you do it?"

"It won't be a hardship." Malik can do this much, he's not ungracious. "You think that by being seen with me others will look upon her more kindly?"

"If not kindly then they may see someone without my reputation, who hasn't done as I've done, with her and speak to you. Your words carry weight."

A sound strategy Malik can't fault. And Altaïr is trusting him with this. With someone he's pledging himself to, coming across as besotted as any poet in his letters so Malik takes a long deep breath, offers up a silent prayer for strength in the face of what might come his way and nods.

"For the Order I'll keep an eye, for you I'll get to know her."

"This is all I can ask for and who knows," Altaïr claps him on the shoulder, too heavy for it to be anything other than ill-disguised relief, his laughter punched out of him, "you may even come to know and regard her as well and warmly as I do."

* * *

"I've a question."

Maria hasn't mastered the soft tread of an Assassin yet, still wearing chausses, tunics, vambraces, and her sturdy boots, even a gambeson on a colder day, always doing just enough to announce herself that Malik's half-turned her direction before she can finish.

"Damn, thought I had you this time."

"You're improving," he tells her because she is, "but I'd be a dead Assassin if I didn't listen for- for soldiers."

"Fair," she concedes. "Anyway, I've more than one question I think, it depends on how you look at it."

Malik gestures for her to sit; Altaïr's left notes scattered about that make little to no sense to Malik – Maria pulls a face at them too, mouthing a few words here and there so in this they're equally as confused when it comes to Altaïr's late night hours with the artifact – because Altaïr has never heard of tidying up after himself it seems. He sits across from Maria and waits. And waits. _And waits_.

Maria sighs gustily, drumming her fingers against the table in a sharp marching beat until she laughs, just as sharp. "Oh for god's sake, he's the one who said to ask you."

"Altaïr can't resist causing problems," Malik agrees readily, a small sharp grin creeping across his face. Rare to have a conspirator but there's nothing else he can possibly label her in the moment despite the circumstances.

"I wanted to ask about Solomon's Temple. Robert told me about it, Altaïr told me about it, but you were there too and your brother; no one who walked into that Temple left it unscathed."

Of all the things Maria might ask, this isn't the most unexpected or unreasonable but that doesn't lessen the blow, the weight of the words that land as surely as if Maria pummelled him with the hilt of her blade as she waits. There's not pity or scrutiny, shrewd curiosity maybe if Malik cared to examine but he doesn't, he only wants to stop himself from catching the edge of the table, to stop himself reeling. He was alone with his rage and his grief in Jerusalem, few willing to disturb him in the bureau and Masyaf, the easy target of Altaïr on his mission from Al Mualim when he disturbed the peace until—

Perhaps Maria's silence is what allows him to take the breath. That she waits for him and doesn't pry.

"You know the Creed?" Malik waits for Maria's nod and begins in earnest. "Altaïr broke it three times: he killed an old man, he recklessly attacked Robert, he allowed Robert to find us. Kadar was younger; he didn't know why we were there in the first place – too young to be trusted with it – "

Strange to think how little Malik has spoken of his brother since. That whoever washed his arm with wine and oil of roses spoke of how terrible it was that they had no body for a burial. That whoever had fallen when the Templars had ridden to the gate with their leg set hadn't been able to look at his arm, choking at the perfume of the frankincense, myrrh and cassia to stop infection after the battle, the ride, the surgery. Drifting in and out on a sea of opium and lettuce seeds as he called out or wept or raged.

Now Maria brings it into a sharp focus and he fights his right hand reaching for some shadow of the left.

"Kadar wanted to be Altaïr. It was _maddening_."

"Because he was your brother?" Maria asks, leaning forward at the table with a furrow between her brow and Malik finds he still has it in him to laugh.

"Maybe. When I look on it now then maybe I was jealous of having my little brother look up to another, trail after him, but Altaïr was arrogant, dangerous; he had no sense of caution or regard for our ways, so Kadar had no mind to listen to me." Malik taps his fingers against the table, calling up his little brother's face from the depths of his memory where he's pushed it, where it lives until the days where it will have scarred over, dulled, no longer raw enough to bleed.

Maria nods, her expression almost a smile that she catches before; they don't know each other well, their days are shared meals, passing in the halls, research with Altaïr as the buffer. "You said your brother wasn't trusted with the mission?"

"Different ranks know different things, to protect us in case of capture."

"Not so different to us or soldiers then," Maria says and his laughter is a short huff but some things are universal no matter what colours you wear. "So Altaïr broke the Creed three times?"

A gentle prompt to get them back to what she asked but Malik lifts his hand. "He broke it twice there, once after – Robert found us after I returned. Killing the old man was the first break of it, second was revealing ourselves when we saw the Apple or Piece of Eden, whatever we're calling it today. We could have had a more stealthy approach, done something else but… Altaïr made a choice. He attacked Robert and was thrown from the Temple. After that—"

One day and Malik will not recall it so vividly. Will not recall the blade that sunk through flesh and muscle and into bone ( _"I am sorry Malik, there is nothing we can do, drink this and do not fight it,"_ ) and Kadar screaming, the Apple in his pouch and the acrid bile in his mouth, struggling to remain astride his horse to return home, no sign of the Templars, no sign of Altaïr.

"I remember little of the chaos," he tells her which is and isn't a lie. Maria is a soldier, was a Templar (might be still he isn't Altaïr after all, this isn't an olive branch, something smaller he might rescind) she'll understand the way a healer or scholar won't for all their knowledge. "Only that there was no one to bury. My brother gone. My responsibility to him and to our Order lost for the arrogance of one man who lost so little in comparison. Though knowing what we do of our Mentor now…"

He doesn't finish the thought. A few others have come to him to speak of variations on a theme that he's passed to Altaïr and to Maria: Al Mualim is still too painful, let it rest where ears might hear his name.

"I'm sorry," Maria says, again without pity, instead only sympathy that should rankle only it doesn't. "They call you Dai here sometimes?"

"I'm Dai of Jerusalem, or I should be. We need to see about a replacement now that Altaïr's returned and I'm needed here too." At her blank look he insults Altaïr under his breath – expand on his philosophies for months of course, but tell her useful things she might need to know? Why would he ever bother to do that? – and shrugs, gesturing to himself. "A promotion for a job well done at the Temple. One rose, one fell. I was higher in rank than him, away from here, working on my maps, providing information from the bureau to those still at work in the field. I made him work for his targets."

That gets a laugh from her, something Altaïr never captures on paper where she's looking at something no one else can see, her eyes fixed on a far-off point. Like this, some red in her cheek, creases at the corners of her eyes, hair escaping her braid that she shakes out of her face with a toss of the head he can see what Altaïr finds appealing about her. If he could forget…

But she is what she was. And she and Altaïr are what they are. So he puts it out of mind: Maria has more questions as it stands, of the bureau, of him sending Altaïr all across Jerusalem in search of enough evidence that yes, this life could be taken (her laugh is loud enough to turn heads when he gets to the funeral, the deception) and he's reluctant to take her leave of her to teach lessons with the younger students. Not that he'll give Altaïr the satisfaction; it wouldn't do to allow him a smug smile on his face too soon.

* * *

Throughout all his years in Masyaf which is the whole of his life, Malik recalls the tiered garden behind the fortress filled with women in fine clothes, something out of a dream, a threshold novices dared one another to cross and seldom did for fear of the Master's wrath. They're gone now, not something Altaïr wishes for his time as Master, plants growing in the ornate pots for the healers and others for uses Altaïr has glimpsed in the Apple and through his travels so far that require a more watchful eye.

The Assassins are encouraged to come here now, to discuss and debate outside the walls, to relax, to think of it as theirs.

Maria and Altaïr use it for sparring, which is something Malik finds out by accident when he's seeking some peace him late in the evening, when all his work is done, when he'd rather not have company but his the walls of his room are too close about him. They don't have an audience which is maybe why they choose such a spot – Malik's never seen them together in the main ring below the battlements – and the first time he knows he's intruding.

He doesn't linger long, but linger he does. He makes a habit of it. Not a routine but they spend time together, him and Altaïr, him and Maria, sometimes all three of them to make sense of the Apple, some bit of business that needs tending to and their plans for the day come up so—

So Malik isn't unaware.

Like he is now, only in his dark trousers and a tunic that looks decidedly travel-stained, Maria clad similarly. From Malik's vantage point by the doorway he can spot belts, a hood, something that might be a gambeson; the evenings are mild, bordering on warm and from their ragged breathing they've been at it a while, Maria's hair plastered to her head with a thin sheen of sweat, Altaïr blinking as he dodges a sword thrust clumsily.

He wonders, sometimes, how they fought in Jerusalem. When Altaïr spared her life. He's heard the story more than once from both of them but to watch them go at it, unawares—they fit well together, Maria a good match in and out of battle for Altaïr, someone who'll keep him on his toes, who won't allow him to slide back into old terrible habits of he once had. A sword strike draws Malik's attention back to the present. A good match like this too.

He's no poet, no artist outside cartography, it falls short of the mark and with what he knows seems a disservice to want to comment on what Altaïr committed to the page. All the same there's her smile. Her laugh. The strength of her arms and breadth of her shoulders. And Altaïr has never been unattractive to look upon (the arrogance was repugnant, his change since losing and regaining his rank, learning to respect the Creed and to lead them, all of that somehow adds to it, to Malik's irritation were anyone ever to ask) with his quest and journeying only leaving him leaner, muscled and ready for what needs to be done, new scars he didn't have before that Malik shouldn't be so interested in.

So what if there are a few who dare to call him out on his wandering gaze? Malik's busy. He has too many things on his mind, a sharp tongue sends them on their way if they've nothing better to do than gossip and speculate the way children do.

Maria feints, Altaïr overcorrects and he's disarmed, both of them toppling down, Maria's sword no longer in her hand either as they land heavily on the ground, Altaïr flat on his back. Malik's breath is knocked from him as surely as he were the one beneath her (a thought he shouldn't dwell on but he will, treacherous as it is) as she laughs triumphantly, Altaïr's hands pinned flat above his head.

He watches longer than he should, another small sin against him, attempts to swallow with his mouth suddenly dry as Altaïr bends one knee but makes no attempt to fight her hold. They're too far for him to hear anything more than the low drone of speech, the panting as they get their breath back.

When Maria leans down he turns and leaves, he won't intrude further.

* * *

The village surrounding the fortress has never been large but with an absence of Crusaders and soldiers plaguing the trade routes the business has increased, more making their way to ply their trade rather than the people leaving; a risk, but Masyaf isn't an unknown quality anymore, and the people can't endlessly rely on one another for what they need or they'll all leave in the end. The Assassins rely on those who dwell below as much as they rely on Assassins, if not more so. Malik's not on patrol, not exactly, neither is Maria; ostensibly she's learning her way about the village however there's so little to it but nobody can live upon the hill forever and she has to learn the rhythms of the place, the people. (Her grasp of Arabic is too stiff, too formal, someone who learnt it from books and listening to whomever she might have spent time around. This is the only other way she'll learn, despite her dubious looks.) Maria has no comments on the bout Malik witnessed – Altaïr hasn't either for his part – though some part of him awaits it the way he did the guards coming for him once when assassinating a target seemed all too easy.

But no comment comes, he gently corrects her speech again, ignores her muttered curse of frustration.

Despite the change of scenery, being stopped to speak with folk who know him or want to know her – or of her as is more often the case – it's dull to loop around the village, through the market, past the tree, past the well, past the basket seller, so Malik touches her arm to catch her attention and draw it back, keeping his voice low when he speaks.

"I've questions of my own, better suited out here away from the prying ears up there."

Maria's relief shows in the line of her jaw at the switch to English, half a smile on her face. "It's only fair I think after what I asked last when we had time for more than the locating Crusader remnants and Templar activity?"

"It's about Robert de Sablé," Malik begins with a glance past her for anyone in robes who might be listening but they're well away from patrols by now, a more secluded spot, shaded beneath a pine older than Malik's father's father where they've a vantage point all their own. Easy enough to not be bothered.

The left corner of Maria's mouth pulls up somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "Seems a fair trade. What do you want to know?"

"How you came to know him: I've fought many a Crusader; few of them have ever been a woman to my knowledge."

Maria doesn't chew her bottom lip but rubs it between her teeth a long moment, a sidelong glance given to him before she answers. "Did Altaïr tell you I was married?"

"No," Malik says carefully to keep the shock from his voice. "He left much of your business that wasn't your shared work or his own thoughts to himself, only what he thought I needed to know."

"Only what he dictated then, good to know." A curl of warmth enters her voice, the smile softening as she adjusts, folds her arms and bends one knee to switch her weight to the opposite hip where her sword sits. "Well I was, as soon as my parents could marry me off despite objections on my part. I had no desire to be the wife my former husband wanted and I imagine I was far from the wife he desired. I couldn't have returned home when the marriage ended any more than I could have remained so off I went to the join the Crusaders; you grew up an Assassin, I was a girl who dreamt of honour and glory, all things denied to me, things I would have walked over hot coals for. I saw my chance and took it."

"Did Robert know the truth of you?"

"After I'd impressed him and drawn attention." She catches herself before she laughs outright, Malik tilting his head in an unasked question. "Sorry, something Altaïr said once about both of us and our masters, how they were one and the same in the end without our knowledge."

"Altaïr at the centre of it all once again." He'd love to sound aggrieved but he falls short of the mark.

"That he is," Maria sounds much the same, sharing a smile. "Anyway, Robert learnt that I was a woman later yet he championed me nonetheless. I never asked the why of it, I simply respected him for allowing me what I wanted and listened to him speak of what he and the Templar Order wished for the world. I'd have done anything he asked of me, I suppose," the hand not by her hip reaches about her throat, to adjust the fastening of her gambeson he thinks but instead she draws out a thin chain, "I did when I went to Majd Addin's funeral in his stead. I knew he was targeted by Assassins as the rest, and yet I went.

"This is all I kept of him." Turning she twists the chain, a simple ring on it that she extends and Malik reaches for – warm from her skin he can't help but notice – that he thumbs carefully, looking between it and her face until he passes it back. "It was when I was in Kyrenia that I learned the truth of the Templar Order and I was disgusted by it. To know what they would have done with the Apple, the part I had been playing; in Acre I had watched a ship sail away with all my hopes of knighthood departing with it, yet I knew nothing of the truth. Robert kept that part from me."

"As Al Mualim did from all of us." Malik reaches a hand out for her arm; they've spent enough time together these past weeks that he knows she's weathered insults when people think she can't hear or can't understand, he jaw clenching, smile brittle, shoulders back, it's a small thing to offer this to her that she might make of it what she will.

Fortunately no one else is around to spot them and it shames him that he's relieved. One thing to spend time with her, he was in charge with Altaïr away, he was Dai of Jerusalem – Malik Al-Sayf, watching this former Templar in their midst to keep a close eye on her, to see what ulterior motives she might have as the Order finds a new footing with a new master whose bed she shares. He has no need of salacious gossip extending to him too but that…that is beneath him, unfair to them both.

He pulls his hand away, nodding for her to continue.

"I don't know what else there is to say that Altaïr hasn't said already in letters by now; perhaps if Robert had lived I would have remained with the Templars. I'd not have known the truth as I do now. I might well have become a knight. A great many things might have been. You might say the same of Solomon's Temple. But I can't pretend I'm unchanged by what happened after leaving Acre. I'm no longer a Templar, I have no desire to return even if they were to offer me all I ever dreamt of that day I departed England for good." Maria looks him dead in the eye, jaw set: she's daring him to challenge her and he respects her for it, who couldn't?

"I believe you," he says which is all he can because he does, and pretends to look to the commotion over the price of baskets when she heaves a sigh of relief next to him. "Come, we've barely managed our patrol," he tells her in Arabic.

She curses at him. Also in Arabic and he laughs hard enough it aches deep in his chest.

"Before we get side-tracked—" Maria halts, face screwed up in thought as if she's sifting through the words she knows, the words she needs and might be lost somewhere between them but she's sticking to language he asked so he waits patiently. "I need another sparring partner and I'm certain you're no slouch; Altaïr and I both think it would do me good. Less rust on my end, fewer bad habits one Assassin might have."

Malik is too busy trying not to sputter, give himself away or apologise that he accepts as quickly as he can and wonders why she looks quite so triumphant as she does.

* * *

Days and weeks stretch out before them with the Order if not being at ease with Maria's status then at least becoming accustomed to her continued presence alongside Altaïr and Malik. She trains alone more often than not from what Malik can see but there are those all too willing to take out their losses against a former Crusader, a former Templar, or to needle with questions; she holds her own, though there are days she says little.

Malik can cast his mind to when he learnt to spar again with his weight off-kilter, only able to use one weapon at a time. He doesn't pry.

Altaïr being who he is can't help himself when it comes to _Malik_ and prying, always poking at things that aren't his business, even as they look over who should be moved where, an attempt to make sense of the landscape left behind to them by Al Mualim and the end of conflict. There are the insights he's gained thus far from the Apple, the state of Limassol and Kyrenia to address, new training for the children, assignments, re-assignments, missives that must be addressed; all in all a not insubstantial body of work that Malik isn't relishing by any means but he's not alone in doing it and Altaïr can see what it's like to take on the burden of it. There are maps languishing that haunt Malik's dreams.

(There are other dreams haunting him into his waking hours now that he doesn't care to dwell on, least of all now.)

But Altaïr is Altaïr, he's had a question tucked behind his teeth for a half hour or more that finally comes out when he sends a pigeon off with a great flapping of wings, message tied securely to one leg as he watches it go, still by the great tall window out the corner of Malik's eye as he reaches for the next thing on the list.

"You're spending time with Maria."

Somehow he manages to sound surprised. As if Altaïr himself didn't suggest it. As if Malik didn't agree. Malik wouldn't be surprised to learn that Maria and Altaïr had a similar conversation after a suggestion on Altaïr's part but he's not Altaïr so he won't stoop so low as to ask.

Not for any other reason. Some part of him is waiting for Altaïr to bring up sparring – if one of them was to notice an audience, it'd be him.

He says nothing, turning just enough that the strain radiates from low in his shoulder to the base of his skull and lifts an incredulous brow once Altaïr returns to the table with a satisfied smile. A smile Malik saw rarely before when they had few kind words to spare for one another but now he's favoured with, earns easily though it never lessens the reward to see it.

"You'd rather Abbas?" It's verging on cruel to say it, wholly worth it though for the scowl that twists Altaïr's mouth.

"Anyone but him, imagine the result."

Personally Malik believes that Abbas could do with further humbling but it wouldn't sweeten his disposition any, something they can't have yet. Still…

"Maybe some people prefer to speak to one another face to face rather than through letters; you haven't forgotten that have you?"

"Very funny." Altaïr rolls his eyes but he's smiling again, leaning against the table, almost crowding Malik though he doesn't move either, close enough that Altaïr radiates heat even through his robes and black coat. "I don't pry into all her personal business?"

"Only mine then? And I should be-"

"Flattered," Altaïr finishes before Malik can and there's a flush across his cheeks that Malik's sure he's not imagining it, a cough even a novice would be ashamed of forced into a hand.

Malik holds his gaze as long as he dares, Altaïr colouring more, looking down and away but he doesn't move so he summons up his words lest they remain at an impasse. "She had questions I was in a better position to answer than you as to Solomon's Temple," Malik says swiftly watching Altaïr's mouth shape his brother's name, "and I had some about Robert, her allegiances. They match in their own way. The places we found ourselves all for want of an apple.

"You were true enough in your letters yet there are things they can't get across, or maybe being here does it, amongst us as she finds her place. That isn't for me to say."

"Is it not? _For the Order I'll keep an eye_?"

"I had few doubts on her martial skills if she stood against you and was Robert's steward but very well; she has a soldier's eye, not a bad thing, we see the world in different ways so there might be better patrols to take, better defences we could build." For good or ill, Masyaf is known forever and always, the fortress might be breached again and they can't have but one trick in their arsenal. "And before she trains more as an Assassin and unlearns lessons then have her show others how the Crusaders fight, a chance to learn where it isn't life and death."

"I've been approached on that already, I'm sure you had no part in it."

"You know yourself how it goes once you start talking after a long day."

Altaïr hesitates, hand outstretched now upon the table to sift through more papers, more plans, this Order he must take charge of now (Malik doesn't envy him) and sighs, half-smiling, bracing for something. "How do they look upon her?"

"Some will never like her. She's English for one. Some will never see her for more than the sins of her past. The same could be said for you. I would have been not so long ago." Malik reaches out this time, claps Altaïr on the arm who leans against him and he can help to shoulder this, he thinks, doesn't mind it as much as he protests otherwise (Altaïr knows that, it's why they can joke so easily now). "But…I can see why you favour her, she is – her Arabic is atrocious, I want you to know that first and foremost before I say what I am about to say – she is honourable, more than I expected. Determined. Straightforward though not unthoughtful; I wonder what it is she sees in you."

Altaïr laughs bright and bold, slinging his free arm around Malik's shoulders to pull him close, his voice low with a note of conspiracy. "Oh, I think you know."

* * *

Last they rode out was to Solomon's Temple, a lifetime ago. Riding out of Masyaf with the dawn still fresh upon them, Altaïr and Malik have no destination in mind today with only a suggestion to get out and get away – just the two of them away from Masyaf and the politics, Maria wanting to write more on Crusader training and movements that might be of use to them in the future without _incessant interruptions_ that are 'entirely your forte' (Malik had laughed at Altaïr's expression saying those words as they mounted up even knowing he wasn't excluded but at least wasn't around to hear it in person). So it's them, both in their robes with their hoods up more out of habit than necessity. Altaïr's horse is an unruly young gelding with a tendency to toss his head and dance sideways into Malik's mare who snorts and tries kicking and nipping until he gets her under control again, swatting Altaïr with the reins.

"You'd make a poor soldier from all accounts I've heard so far," Malik says when he puts enough distance between the horses again.

Altaïr aims a swat, misjudges the distance and has to catch himself. "Every army has plenty of foot soldiers. I still haven't had a chance to replace the horse I lost coming back after Arsuf, he was a fine animal."

"Maybe you can tame this one; you're staying put aren't you?"

"I am or that's the plan."

They ride past the watchtower and pause for the customary greetings to the small group stationed there, a smattering of seasoned members of the Order with a few new to the less exciting truths to their lives amongst them. Not all of it is to be the informant or to take a life, researching or running a bureau; many long hours spent passing watch, friendships built or petty grudges over how loud one person can breathe, a catalogue of annoying habits that can't ever be forgotten.

Altaïr and Malik were placed on watch often enough. Malik can remember seething at him being above him by rank despite a litany of trespasses not forgiven for any others but equally he recalls huddling close to him by the watch fire atop a tower, his profile in the sunset – always handsome, his arrogance had been a blessing then to keep Malik from making a fool of himself – how still he held himself with those broad shoulders. Dangerous to think of that now when Altaïr is a wholly different man. To think about him with Maria, sharing watches, both of them devastating as the poets would write and which one of them he's jealous of he can't say.

(Both. Malik knows that it's both but that's not a thing he'll be admitting to, why would he?)

Altaïr spurs his horse, Malik following to ride up the slope, up past where there were Crusaders and Saracens patrolling who didn't care if you were an Assassin, only that you were on the road and therefore something to be chased if you rode too quickly for their liking. He understands the urge. Before he realises it he's laughing and Altaïr is too from what he can hear over the thundering of hooves and the wind that threatens to whip his hood clear off his face; Malik loves Masyaf, Masyaf is his home, his heart, his sanctuary, but he's had precious few chances to even leave the gates since he arrived after the funeral of Majd Addin and the rush of it leaves him breathless and giddy by the time they've slowed the horses to a trot so they can hear one another again. The marks of the Crusaders are still present, flags and banners sun-bleached and wind-torn, faces that much like Maria's aren't from this land but must have grown disillusioned with war and conflict, who found themselves a new life here that won't meet their gaze as they ride past. Old helms are mounted on fences where goats graze, small children fencing with sticks clattering them as they charge past to set them ringing loud as church bells.

Altaïr shakes his head and Malik wonders just how many of them were obstacles along the way.

"I thought it would take longer for life to return to how it was before when I was away," he says as they ride on, weaving past the villagers who nod their heads but go about their business; the Assassins from Masyaf are still a story here, tales indulged then scoffed at if a relative lives beneath the shadow of the fortress.

"Longer in the cities I think where they had more influence. Without the troops to move through here and harass them then they no longer have that fear but the same they did previously only now with new leaders in Acre, Damascus, and Jerusalem to appeal to."

"We need to ensure the people are well then, we can be isolated no longer."

Malik nods, clicking his tongue at his horse. "Is this how it was with you and Maria on your journeys?"

"Yes and no. Kyrenia and Limassol had Templar threats we had to deal with and maybe in time we can establish a strong Assassin presence there, I think it would do us good though when that will be given how we are presently, I can't say." He looks over to Malik and grins. "I had Maria trying to escape on me at times at the start when she was still very much a Templar to both our minds. The words 'Robert's girl' might have crossed my lips."

That gets a laugh out of Malik, sudden enough that Altaïr's horse spooks and whinnies. "Yet you still draw breath! You're a lucky one brother."

"That I am," Altaïr replies with such hopeless fondness that it stokes that strange jealously and longing in Malik's chest again that he seeks to smother. "We travel alone so often and with all that had happened, all that I knew I had awaiting me…to have someone else I could talk to-"

"Talk at?"

Altaïr pauses a moment long enough that it can only be a man coming to terms with his guilt. "Ah, she's informed you."

"That and your letters."

"A low blow."

"Well you did ask, continue."

"As I was saying – Maria listened. She had no direction when everything was said and done and we'd grown closer in a way I hadn't expected. I knew she was no slouch in battle even before we met again after fighting her in Jerusalem – she's no slouch, gives no quarter," Altaïr gives Malik a _look_ and Malik knows then and there that he's been caught out when watching the two of them sparring and he's glad of the hood for sparing his blush. "Maria has doubts about the Apple."

"She isn't alone." Arriving to Masyaf in a state, what might have happened at the hands of Abbas—Malik isn't so sure they shouldn't be rid of the thing entirely and knowing Maria isn't as enamoured of the thing as Altaïr is another point in her favour now. He'd thought them both of a mind when it came to it, now he might have an ally.

"Her being a Templar…" Malik trails off, gathering the reins in his hand as he rolls his shoulder when it begins to twinge as a consequence of not having ridden for months now though maybe he'll get the chance again.

"I struggled with it for a time, alone, to myself. But she disavowed the Templars and I believed her, what more could I do? It was Maria who wanted to travel to Masyaf in the end after I said I'd go east with her. Nothing happened until after that, she was my prisoner for a time I'm not—" Even with a hood in the way Malik can imagine the face being made beneath the hood, the slow dawning horror given some of the targets they've been assigned in the past, the sort of men and the flesh they traffic in.

"I never thought. Templars are a hurdle though."

"Some hurdles are worth it."

Altaïr turns in the saddle to fix him with a look, the sun hitting him the way it did once years ago when they were younger men; he's not the arrogant man with no regard for their ways and Malik has a far greater audience should he give in to his foolishness now.

"One more thing before I forget since I promised I'd bring it up: you haven't taken Maria up on her offer."

"Her offer?"

"Your memory failing already in your dotage—"

"We're the same age!" Malik laughs and one day he's sure he'll get past the strangeness of how freely this comes to him with Altaïr, as if there was never enmity between them.

"Train with her, cross swords, whatever you want to call it: with you she'll have a test without some sort of ill-intent behind it and I know for a fact she was looking forward to it."

Malik blames the sun for the heat on his face, thankful that Altaïr can't see it as he nods his agreement, clicking his tongue to spur his horse onwards to the next watch post and discussion of the list of prospective replacements for the Jerusalem bureau.

* * *

"Less rust on your end?" Malik jump backs neatly, "I think I was deceived."

Maria grins, pivoting and bring her sword up in readiness for a strike from him. "Is it not the job of an Assassin to gather information on their target or was I ill-informed?"

Malik laughs, circling her, getting a measure of her posture, her stance; they're alone as far as he can see where she and Altaïr usually spar together – Malik still watches them, a bad habit he's picked up. They're well-matched from what he can tell thus far, his shortsword for Maria's longsword – one day he'll work his way back to being comfortable with the weight of it in one hand but not yet, he's still _off_ \- with more speed than Maria. But she's a seasoned soldier who's been with Altaïr since Limassol.

And she's no qualms about catching him by the shoulder when he's close enough after a series of brutal strikes and fast parries. Takes the elbow to the gut aimed her way from Malik. He dodges the retaliatory kick that's aimed for his knee; her smile is all teeth, a mirror of his own. Something about it is satisfying in a way it isn't with the rest of the Order. None of them have ever pulled their punches either but Maria throws herself into it in a way that Malik knows is all of her. Determination not to lose ground or give an inch behind each blow.

They stare one another down for a heartbeat and another, daring to make the first move. It's Malik who lunges for her. Maria's blade meets his, an impact that races up his arm, up his jaw, in his teeth. He can see Maria between their crossed blades, a furrow between her brows but a smile too.

A life almost denied her. Snatched back. Never to be stolen again.

He puts his weight into where their swords are locked, pushing her back across the small courtyard until he can't. Until he takes the risk and twists, Maria overbalancing and undercorrecting. All the chance he needs to disarm her.

"Shit!"

Her curse rings out, Malik trying and failing not laugh at her expression. None of that explains why he brings his shortsword up under her chin outside old impulse, the memory of what he saw of her astride Altaïr, and that she only holds his gaze and smiles with satisfaction he can't deny either.

Which is about when he looks up and over her shoulder, towards the stairs where he's stood more times than he's proud of and notices a figure in his stead watching. Altaïr, not looking away from the tableau before him, not intervening, the slow curl of a smile appearing on his face.

* * *

There are days when Maria or Malik find Altaïr absorbed with the Apple when he's not studying it, not writing based on what he's learned from it, but simply staring at it with some unfixed expression that unsettles Malik (unsettles Maria from what she's said to him of it, when he's passed her after she's dredged him up and out of whatever fugue he falls into).

There are days Malik wishes the Apple had remained in Solomon's Temple.

When he finds Altaïr after one of the scholars dressed in white sends Malik off with some book Altaïr requested but never came himself, he's staring at the diary he's kept ever since he's returned and that he spoke of in his letters, not frowning but not far off. Malik drops the book with a thump on table to startle some sort of life back into Altaïr who scowls, brow raised.

"You need to stop losing track of time, you'll worry people."

"No one's allowed to get lost in their work?"

"Work, yes. This?" Malik gestures to the notes on the page. "Not after Al Mualim and Abbas. They remember fighting amongst themselves and a populace held against their will, you cannot know what you might reap from seeds of doubt. Remember that."

Altaïr rubs his eyes with the heels of ink-stained hands, raising them high above his head in a stretch that pops his back. Malik's eyes follow, darting back before he's caught.

The little smile says otherwise but it goes without comment.

"I did mean to speak with you." Malik steels himself, breathes long and slow through his nose as he would before taking a Leap of Faith and supposes that this is little different with all that's happened since Altaïr returning to Masyaf. They've danced around this enough and can't any longer. "You asked two things of me when you brought Maria here with you. To get to know her for you, to keep an eye for the Order."

Altaïr's good humour doesn't disappear but he senses the shift in Malik's mood, that this isn't something he can treat with levity the way they have before and well, he saw what he saw when he and Maria sparred together, Malik's sure he's been caught himself in such moments. He motions for Malik to continue without interruption – a rarity with them and how is it that they've become so accustomed already to an easy back and forth after all their years of bitterness? – and he weighs his words a moment. Only one chance for him to get this right after all.

"I trust her. You should know that first and foremost that despite the misgivings and reservations I had that we've talked long enough to have moved past them. A part of me wishes I might have them still but if that's for the good of the Order, I cannot say."

"'You cannot say'? That doesn't sound like you Malik," Altaïr says softly and Malik holds up a hand to quell further interruption.

"Let me finish, please, or we'll never get to the end of this." He watches for the incline of the head, _continue_ , and wishes he had more time but knows all the same that he'd only be delaying the inevitable. "My judgement might be…impaired now. I want what's best for the Order but at the same time, I know Maria too well. I—I'm too close now."

"You care for her?" When Altaïr got so close Malik's not sure but they're shoulder to shoulder.

He could lie. Altaïr would see through it and accept it, they'd move on. But Malik is no coward. "I do. It might be a detriment to how things stand but there are those who'll never like Maria no matter what she does. There are those who'll never be at peace with your leadership either. Those two things tied together?" He shrugs, bumps Altaïr in the process and manages a tired smile. "I think both things are a benefit to the Order and there are enough here who see it. Maria's loyalty is a thing to be prized. She's as strong a fighter as we could ask for, has a keen mind, she takes no nonsense but she has enough caution when called. You balance each other well and I would miss her now I've come to know her. Is that answer enough for you?"

"I think," Altaïr says after a long moment where Malik can't look away from him, where he's watching Maria pin Altaïr in the courtyard and Altaïr over Maria's shoulder with his blade beneath her throat all over, "that this is beginning to become a discussion we should have elsewhere that requires all three of us."

"Lead the way."

* * *

Altaïr still hasn't moved into the rooms that belonged to Al Mualim yet (better to let that one lie, few have gone near it since they cleared it out and changed the linens after his death, superstition or show of respect no one will say, perhaps a touch of both) but to another room from when more of them were married with children to allow space for two people to live together without living on top of the other; a double bed, a desk, shelves, a table and stools by the window and a trunk at the foot of the bed. Malik's not been here, not like he had Altaïr's previous room, it seemed to be overstepping in a way, only as far as the doorway looking for one or both of them. Training, missives, some matter that can't wait no matter the hour that might've roused him from his bed too.

Maria's sat at the table and doesn't seem entirely surprised to see the two of them, dressed much as she often is, putting aside the book on the table before Malik can glance at the title. Maybe one of the volumes he recommended to her, something written in a neater hand than half the Assassins here who seem to take a sense of misaimed pride in their nigh-indecipherable penmanship.

"Forgive the intrusion," he says by way of greeting then turns to glare at Altaïr who gives him a nudge over the threshold so he can close the door behind him.

"You're never an intrusion Malik and you're sparing me the headaches of philosophers this late in the day. Come, sit down."

Altaïr helpfully takes the chest on the bed so Malik's across from her with less of an easy escape should he wish it and maybe he would have before, if everything else hadn't happened as it had, if Maria didn't wear the same easy smile she has before, the same he's shared with Altaïr where he could walk away without consequence or he could stay. So he settles, little sound reaching them this high from the half-open window as they look between one another to begin, a stand-off that might never end.

So of course it does with him and Altaïr both trying to talk over the top of one another.

"Malik and I were—"

"Altaïr and I have—"

"Who goes first?" Maria asks and he and Altaïr end up staring the other one down a moment longer as she mutters _oh for pity's sake_ under her breath. "Honestly? What a pair you are."

"We were talking about the Order." Altaïr is the one to begin and it feels right to Malik because he was the one to return, to light the spark of it so to speak. "Maria knows that I asked to you to spend time with her, I made the same suggestion to her though not quite for the same reasons you understand.

"I wished for both of you to know one another as I do. That there might be a friendship built upon equal footing and that it would be a way for Maria to learn of our Order from someone else and for Malik to know Maria's loyalties for himself."

"Perhaps you might have shared all of it beforehand but…perhaps I might not have believed."

"And," Maria's hand has crept across the table and rests atop Malik's, sword-callused and so very warm, "things might not have taken the turn they have. Though I know for a fact that two parties in this room don't regret that though if you—"

"I do not." Malik cuts her off before doubt can creep in on any part, hears two sighs of relief and cuts a glance over to Altaïr. "However the Order—if they have reservations about you and Altaïr, they would have those about Altaïr and myself, or you and I. Whatever happens between us, however it may happen? It can only ever be discreet. Al Mualim and Abbas are wounds barely stitched."

"I know," Altaïr murmurs as he rises from the chest to kneel by the table which isn't helping at all, not with that hopeful look in his eyes that he might do all that he wants because he's come through the fire, burned and raw himself. "But we are of like mind and not alone."

"I hid myself for years in plain sight," Maria reminds them both as she cups a hand under Altaïr's jaw, thumb rubbing his chin in a gesture that says she's done it enough she does it without thinking; any other time and Malik would have looked politely away but he's invited now, and Altaïr's hand is heavy on his knee, all three of them joined at the table. "Though I suspect what time together we have will be seldom and precious from what I know of this life from the two of you."

"Then," Malik summons a boldness that belongs to a younger man who still might have squandered this chance, "perhaps we shouldn't waste much more of it."

* * *

_At last_ , Malik thinks as he dismounts, patting the warm neck of his horse as she noses at him for treats he doesn't have, one of the local village girls taking her from him with a bored look when he entreats her to treat the horse kindly. "She's ridden a long way," he tells her, removing the saddlebags and slinging them over his shoulder before beginning the short hike to the fortress.

A welcome sight after the long journey from Jerusalem to collect the last of his things from the bureau and settle his replacement who was chosen and departed with him weeks ago; a rafiq, not a Dai, but she's young enough to make that rank in time of that he's certain. Her calligraphy is beautiful too, the type that fetches a high price when she has time to work on it whenever Assassins and informants aren't coming in and out of the bureau seeking to discuss a target or to deliver information into her hands. Strange to let it go when it was never his for so very long but he was still responsible, still oversaw so much in his short tenure.

Now he's here.

_Home_.

It takes longer than he'd like to get inside, stopped by every other body wearing robes asking after him, his health, what news he's heard in Jerusalem and on the road, wanting to share their own gossip until he says he has to take his leave and rest. He's not lying exactly: the journey was long and he's eager to be back and set down his bags, strip off his travel-stained robes and stretch out in a bed that doesn't stink of horse sweat.

"Welcome back." Maria calls out to him from the steps above the training ring just inside the main doorway and Malik finds that yes, he has it in him to quicken his pace to close the distance between them. She pulls him into an embrace as soon as he's close enough, one no one can bat an eye about, two friends who've not seen each other happy to be reunited.

(There's talk, gossip is a currency everywhere but nothing brews into discontent, so they let the talk be.)

"It's good to be home," he says into her ear as they pull apart, her hand still resting at the small of his back as they head inside. "Tell me he's not bent over his notes, he'll be stooped before his time."

Maria laughs and shakes her head. "He's been finishing putting another group through their paces with some of the new techniques we were all working on so he's probably pretending he's not hurt himself after having to guide each one through it then correcting them until they understand."

"The hazards of wanting to be the hands on mentor."

"This is the life he chose."

Malik snorts, shaking his head. "What does that say for us?"

"That we've taken leave of our senses?"

Maria gives him a confused look when he has to stop because he starts to laugh hard enough he can't see, recalling his own thoughts a year and more ago when Altaïr rode back to Masyaf with Maria at his side. So rare these days to have all three of them together, always one who remains in Masyaf – Malik more often than not who oversees and organises – while two go out into the world to do what must be done but this time they've managed to overlap before anyone has to leave. A whole week, little to themselves but enough.

Altaïr is waiting in a room they share when it's all three of them or both, pushing away from the window as if to pretend he wasn't watching for Malik's arrival the way any of them do, as if there wasn't some sort of discussion over whose turn to greet the returning party it might be.

"It's been too long," Altaïr says, as he draws them both into his arms, a kiss to Malik and Maria's brow. "I dislike being on the other end of this."

"Now you get to know how it feels," Malik taunts as he catches Altaïr's chin to kiss him, Maria already divesting him of his coat; it took them so long to have this come easily, to be with two people so alike and so different, who lapse into different tongues when they forget themselves, who never see one another enough, the careful distances and displays in public.

Maria tugs him away from Altaïr because 'just because you waited doesn't mean you get him all to yourself' so she can kiss him, Malik cupping her cheek as Altaïr laughs, nipping his neck as he works the catches on his robes, careful with the belt and the throwing knives. Whatever thoughts he had are lost, the aches of travel forgotten for the moment; he has them again for now, for these fleeting moments, recalling some of what he spied Altaïr writing before he departed last of fighting for what is just, of sacrifice and love.

They have so few moments together and all three have accepted that now as he's pulled in the direction of a bed that barely fits them – again, how often are they all there to share it? – but all the sweeter to return, to have this when any of them do and catalogue new scars after with quiet words of their adventures where the outside world might wait a while longer yet, as it will today.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the following:
> 
> Reciprocity—it all comes down  
> To that.  
> As with lovers:  
> When it’s right you can’t say  
> Who is kissing whom.  
> \-- Gregory Orr, Concerning the Book that is the Body of the Beloved
> 
> Did I once again spend too much time looking up clothing for this? Absolutely. (No one knew how to draw people back in the day, a fun reference search.) Also the medicine is about as legit as I could get it and [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pinus_brutia) are the pine trees that could possibly grow there given where Masyaf is.  
> The Codex line I'm talking about at the end is this bit _But if we truly fight for what is just, does love not make such sacrifice simpler – knowing that we do so for their gain?_ from Codex #24 which I know is about children but it fit so well and this is AU anyway so I'm stealing it for this the end.


End file.
